


Trust Exercises

by matchka



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: "I swear I'm only touching you in a medical kind of way", Case Fic, Developing Relationship, Gen, M/M, Pre-War, awkward robots being awkward, copshipping, featuring nightbeat as the only guy whose rudeness level begins to approach Prowl's, overcoming insecurity, tumbler's a whiner and prowl's a prickly asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 14:50:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3654435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchka/pseuds/matchka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I said, I was concerned. You were knocked completely offline. I thought you were hurt.” His gaze is still averted, a curiously un-Prowl gesture. Tumbler recalls the agitated twitch of doorwings, his narrowed, attentive optics, and the unsaid implications of Prowl’s muttered admission emerge, somewhat muddled in Tumbler’s aching, incredulous brain: I prioritised your welfare over the case.</p><p>In which Tumbler is injured working a case, and Prowl inspects the damage done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust Exercises

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you to [owlix](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlix/pseuds/Owlix), who was kind enough to look this fic over, and kind enough to encourage me to share it. And for introducing me to MTMTE in the first place. My life has been consumed by robots, and I am very grateful.
> 
> (I swear this was only meant to be a couple of hundred words.)

 

__  
Still I’m pinned under the weight  
_Of what I believed would keep me safe._  
_So show me where my armor ends,_  
_Show me where my skin begins._  
_Like a final puzzle piece_  
_It all makes perfect sense to me…_

"Pluto"

Sleeping At Last

 

Light comes into slow focus, a little at a time, like water trickling. Tumbler’s optics flicker, stutter; the world rebuilds itself in fragments, as though seen through shattered lenses. Other systems stagger online; his olfactory sensors detect the scent of leaking energon somewhere close by. A low, persistent ache registers somewhere in the region of his midsection, though he’s not sure – the damage report is yet to materialise, which isn’t the best of signs.

“I think he’s back with us.”

The voice is familiar. Low, a little fuzzy, as though passed through a subpar vocalisation unit. Tumbler’s optics flicker again; a burst of colour and light and shape flood in, sparking all of his sensors at once, and the pain that spikes in his cranial cavity is far worse than the dull ache at his centre.

“Tumbler.” Tentative fingers against his chestplate, afraid to exert pressure in case it breaks him. “Are you hurt?”

“Ask a stupid question,” a second voice mutters, but Tumbler zeroes in on the first speaker, tracing the trajectory of the hand splayed gently against his chestplate.

Bright blue optics, narrowed in concentration; mouth turned into a familiar frown. Prowl is tucked into an awkward crouch, doorwings twitching with poorly-concealed agitation. He looks worried. It’s a terribly alien expression; Tumbler doesn’t know whether to be concerned or surprised. Behind him, a flash of blue paintwork signals Nightbeat’s presence.

“I’m okay.” His voice sounds thick and a little slurred, even to his own auditory receptors. His preliminary damage reports suggests he’s sustained a hefty blow to the midsection and at least three more to the head; minor energon leakage from the mouth. Damage to the hinges of his faceplate, though it feels intact. Probably looks worse than it is. Still, as he struggles to sit (Prowl withdraws his hand, watching Tumbler carefully, observing the slow, careful motion of his limbs) a flare of pain burns at his centre, receptors firing rapid and random like a cluster of faulty lights. He drags himself up, ignoring the momentary lag of his visuals, the way the world seems to pitch and roll. "What happened, exactly?"

"You don't remember?"

"Would I be asking if I did?"

Prowl remains carefully impassive, as though weighing his response.

"You got into an argument with a truck," Nightbeat says. Behind him, Prowl gets to his feet, unfurling to his full height - not as tall as he appears at first glance; the long, sleek lines of him are deceptive. His optics carefully scan the length of Tumbler, a dispassionate clinical assessment which nonetheless makes Tumbler feel vaguely uncomfortable. "I think it's fair to say the truck won."

“I don’t remember that at all.” He doesn’t: in between ‘approaching the suspect’ and ‘coming back online’ there’s a long, blank space in his memory in which trucks notably do not feature. They’re still in the warehouse, which means whatever happened must have been pretty fast. He raises his fingers to his faceplate, feels along the latches for breaks. It's a little askew, and the hinges are loose, but it seems mostly intact. "Where's the suspect now?"

"I managed to apprehend him,” Nightbeat says. “Prowl called for backup and I was nearby. Lucky, right? Gotta say, though, it doesn’t look good on your suspect. Getting your buddy to assault an officer so you can escape? Seems like a pretty desperate move, if you ask me.”

"And the truck?"

Nightbeat gives a quizzical tilt of the head. "Well, he kind of hit and run," he says, glancing momentarily up at Prowl, who, as usual, gives absolutely nothing away. “Listen, I’ve really got to get back to the station, so uh. I’ll see you.”

“What he means to say,” Prowl says quietly, watching Nightbeat depart, “is that he let the truck go.”

"He’s a hostage negotiator, not a patrol officer. You could’ve chased him down,” Tumbler says. He shifts position, wincing inwardly at the strain of his cables. “You’re basically built for that, right? I mean…” He senses a sudden tension on Prowl’s part, the assumption that Tumbler is criticising, and perhaps he is a little; Prowl’s built for speed but it’s usually Tumbler who ends up giving chase, him who does the dirty work while Prowl runs simulations, calculates probabilities; nobody ever got shot for hypothesising. “I guess it doesn’t really matter. There’ll be a lot of paperwork though.”

Prowl’s frown deepens. He looks away, muttering something barely audible.

“Didn’t catch that,” Tumbler says. “My auditory receptors are still ringing.”

“I said, I was concerned. You were knocked completely offline. I thought you were hurt.” His gaze is still averted, a curiously un-Prowl gesture. Tumbler recalls the agitated twitch of doorwings, his narrowed, attentive optics, and the unsaid implications of Prowl’s muttered admission emerge, somewhat muddled in Tumbler’s aching, incredulous brain:  _I prioritised your welfare over the case._

“I  _am_  hurt,” Tumbler replies, because it’s always so much easier to be petulant. Easier to focus on the ache in his midsection and the hairline crack in his chestplate than to think too hard about what Prowl is really saying. He can still taste the energon in his mouth, sharp and a little sour, no doubt staining the inside of his faceplate. He struggles to stand, fighting a wave of dizziness. Perhaps he ought to have stayed down a little longer.

He feels Prowl’s hand at his shoulder, steadying him – the lightest of touches, almost timid. Like he’s afraid to wound Tumbler’s pride by helping him up. He needn’t be. Tumbler’s faults are many and varied but pride has never been chief among them. “Thanks,” he says, and means it.

“I'm taking you back to the station,” Prowl says.

“I’m fine,” Tumbler replies, which is an obvious lie – Prowl’s hand is still on his shoulder, keeping him from tilting, and maybe that's kind of pleasant, in a muzzy-headed, about-to-fall-over kind of way. “Just a little sore. If I’d been built half-decently I probably wouldn’t even have been hurt.”

"You need medical attention."

"What I need is a drink."

Prowl's frown deepens. His optics meet Tumbler's, concealed safely behind his visor. He thinks his left optic is malfunctioning a little; Prowl's face is swimming in and out of focus, his sharp features distorted. "You sustained several blows to the head," Prowl says, a little incredulously. "Taking into account the length of time you were offline, and the location of impact, there's a 78% likelihood of damage to your neural net. Distilled engex is only going to exacerbate that. Primus knows what kind of trouble you could get yourself into..."

"Come with me, then,” Tumbler says, not entirely in jest. He thinks about what Prowl would be like drunk, sometimes. He wonders if it’d loosen him up any. Maybe he’d even smile for once. “Your constant disapproval will keep me in line.”

Prowl’s grip on his shoulder tightens a little. “I am  _not_  going anywhere with you except back to the station, where you  _will_  submit to a full medical examination. It won’t help me any if your cerebral structures haemorrhage.”

An exasperated huff emanates from Tumbler’s vocaliser. “And there I was thinking you cared about my wellbeing.”

“I care about you not dying on duty,” Prowl says irritably. “Let’s go. Don’t even think about using your alt-mode. I sincerely doubt you’re fit to drive.”

“Fine,” Tumbler says. They head in the direction of the station, and only after a few moments does Prowl finally let go of his shoulder. There’s a small pang of something a little like disappointment, but Tumbler is still too woozy to register it. “Primus gave us legs for a reason, right?”

And there, brief as a spark of electricity, the very beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of Prowl’s mouth, and a strange elation prickles at the back of Tumbler’s mind, as though this littlest of victories is some kind of gift just for him.

*

By the time they reach the station Tumbler is feeling a little worse for wear; the ache in his midsection has intensified into a deep, corrosive pain, eating away at the plates and cables of him. His head is miserably sore. What he would like to do is lie down in a darkened room, switch off and recharge for a very long time. Preferably a few days. But Prowl shoos him into their office, shutting the door behind them, and the chances of him being let off his shift early are looking more and more remote by the minute.

“Sit,” Prowl says, indicating Tumbler’s seat. It’s not difficult to tell which desk belongs to who: Prowl’s is terrifyingly organised, datapads stacked so tidily it looks as though he’s calculated the exact position of each one to the last millimetre. Tumbler’s, on the other hand, is a minefield of empty Kremzeek cartons and bits of mismatched stationery. (“How can you work like that?” Prowl had asked him once, staring at his desk in utter horror. “It looks like the aftermath of a cyclone.”)

Tumbler perches on the edge of Prowl’s desk, taking care to deliberately nudge the stack of datapads slightly out of line. Prowl purses his lips for a moment, then sets to work prodding Tumbler’s cranium with one outstretched finger.

“What exactly are you doing?” He can feel Prowl tugging at the fins either side of his visor, a firm but gentle motion; it isn’t doing much to assuage the pain in his head.

“You said you didn’t want to go to the infirmary.” As if that explains everything. “What’s the function of these, anyway?”

“They don’t have a function. They’re just there to look stupid.” Prowl is very close, examining him in an utterly unselfconscious and alarmingly utilitarian fashion. His fingers run light circuits, probing the divots and angles of Tumber’s cranial plating. Despite the clinical efficiency of his touch the whole thing is making Tumbler feel incredibly awkward, and he’s suddenly grateful for the cover of his faceplate, his visor, hiding the twitch of his mouth and the frantic back-and-forth motion of his optics. “Can you maybe not stand quite so close?”

“Sorry,” Prowl says absently, and makes no move to create more space. “You’ve got a few small dents up here. Hairline fractures of the visor, though nothing major. I think it’s mostly superficial damage. And…” Prowl’s face suddenly looms in Tumbler’s field of vision. Fingers pry at the latches of his faceplate; his spark lurches, and he gives a low, undignified hiccup of alarm. He draws sharply away, knocking the stack of datapads over completely.

Prowl’s brow furrows in surprise. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, I…” He turns, tries to arrange the datapads and succeeds only in scattering them further. His hands are clumsy all of a sudden, his thoughts muddled and incoherent, and he can still feel Prowl’s hands against his faceplate. “Just…uncomfortable. With that.”

Prowl’s doorwings tense. “Well if you’d go to the infirmary like I told you, you wouldn’t have to make do with me. I’m not a medic. I could get in all kinds of trouble for this.” And now he’s angry. It’s so easy to provoke Prowl’s ire that Tumbler doesn’t even have to try anymore, doesn’t even have to do it on purpose. He’s tightly strung, and Tumbler is not exactly elegant with words. “I’m trying my best, Tumbler.”

“I know.” Genuinely contrite. Prowl  _is_  trying. It’s taken him well over ten minutes to even approach his usual levels of snappishness. “I would just…I’d prefer it if you skipped over the faceplate. I’m sure it’s okay.”

“I really do need to check for damage,” Prowl says, matter-of-fact. “You’re leaking a little from the left side. I need to check your optics, too. Once I’m satisfied your injuries are only superficial, you can go.”

“I’m fine, really.”

Prowl lets out a sigh, a soft rush of air, fuzzy as it passes through his vocaliser. “I know what this is about,” he says, calmer now. “Do you trust me, Tumbler?”

“I…what? Trust you how? In a general sense?”

“As your colleague,” Prowl says, waving an impatient hand. “As your partner.”

Tumbler frowns. “Well, yes,” he says, watching Prowl stand, tracking his slow approach with wide, apprehensive optics. “You’ve given me no reason not to.”

“Good.” He stands before Tumbler, palms outstretched, fingers splayed. And then he leans in, raising those hands slowly, giving Tumbler ample time to retreat, and though his spark shudders with a creeping, low-grade panic he stays calm, focusing on the serene, beautiful blue of Prowl’s optics as he draws close. “Then trust me,” he says, voice soft. His fingers brush the latches of his faceplate, his visor; Tumbler feels an awful crawling sensation beneath his plating but relents, letting air hiss softly through his vocaliser as Prowl unlatches his faceplate, peels it slowly back in one smooth, careful motion. He feels horribly exposed and vulnerable. He wants to move, to reach up and snap his faceplate shut again, but this is Prowl. He’s a pragmatist. Prowl doesn’t care what a mech looks like, as long as he’s practical, and Tumbler is eminently practical.

Nobody has ever seen him like this before. Somehow, he thinks Prowl knows this.

“May I?” Prowl asks, shooting Tumbler an enquiring glance, and Tumbler offers an abrupt, wordless nod. He lets Prowl press his index finger gently against the plating of his mouth, feeling his way around – a delicate circuit taking him up to the crudely-built stub of his nose (a brief flare of pain as he presses against something broken) down to the sharp, awkward plane of his chin. He doesn’t have a mouth the way Prowl does – expressive and pretty, perfectly congruent with the rest of his face. His mouth is a few steps up from the basic fuel intake port some masked mechs have, but there is nothing aesthetically pleasing about it. That, at least, is in keeping with the rest of his body.

Prowl’s face is a mask of concentration, his mouth a thin, thoughtful line. When he pulls away, his fingers are tacky with half-dried energon. He pauses before he slides Tumbler’s visor open, allowing him a moment in which to change his mind. It’s not like Prowl to go so slowly about things, he thinks, struggling momentarily to adjust to the sudden influx of light and colour. Prowl has never been abundant with patience, much less for Tumbler’s near-constant grumbling about the inefficiency of his body. Prowl thinks his insecurities are an irritating distraction.

There’s a long, excruciating moment of silence as Prowl’s optics meet his. Strange, to see him without the minor distortion of his visor; the way the light from his optics casts the sharp, silvery jut of his nose in pale blue. It seems as though several cycles come and go before Prowl finally looks away.

“You seem to be functioning properly,” Prowl says. “Though I’m only trained to evaluate minor injuries. Still, I suspect you’ll survive.”

Tumbler gestures towards his faceplate. “Can I…?”

“Go ahead,” Prowl nods. To Tumbler’s surprise, he looks away, granting him a moment of privacy.

It’s a terrible relief to feel the latches click into place. Almost immediately, the swell of anxiety begins to subside, growing quieter until it’s little more than a mild itch in the seams of his plating. And he can ignore that. He’s been ignoring that most of his life.

“You worry about such irrelevant things,” Prowl says, staring at the far wall.

“It’s okay for you,” Tumbler says, without thinking. He’s still running high on the confused adrenaline of his insecurity, and his head’s still a little fuzzy. “You don’t  _have_  to worry. You won the metaphorical lottery when builds were being handed out.”

Prowl’s mouth twitches. “What do you mean by that?”

 _Well, just look at you_ , Tumbler thinks, biting back the words, because this isn’t something he can say to Prowl outright. Whatever odd relationship they seem to have right now – more than colleagues, not quite friends, occupying some strange, indeterminate space in between – he’s not sure it’s a smart idea to actually verbalise the thoughts he has about Prowl, sometimes, when he’s not being cold and cantankerous and rude. When he’s standing there, thinking very deeply about something, completely off-guard.

“Nothing.” Tumbler shakes his head, feeling the rattle of a loosened bolt. “You’re right. It’s irrelevant."

Prowl’s doorwings twitch in annoyance. Tumbler’s almost certain he’s going to launch into one of his ‘you should be grateful, it could have been worse, you could have been a laser pointer’ speeches. “You have good optics,” Prowl says, after a moment. “Very functional. Good quality lenses. And…” he thinks for a moment, like he’s rolling the next sentence around in his head. “They’re a nice colour,” he finishes, a little awkwardly.

 _Was that a compliment?_  Tumbler is mildly stunned.

“And your mouth…really, you shouldn’t worry so much about it. It works perfectly well.”

He snorts. “It’s basically a hole in my face.”

“That’s all it needs to be.” His growing frustration is apparent. Tumbler knows they’ll only bicker if they keep on down this road, as they have so many times before – it’s so easy for a mech with Prowl’s build, Prowl’s alt-mode, Prowl’s face, to give off about the irrelevance of one’s physical appearance. Nobody looks at him the way they do Tumbler – glancing at his lanky, awkward build and rust-coloured faceplate like they  _know_  he’s a knock-off. “You don’t need to impress anybody, Tumbler. You do good work. That speaks for itself. Concentrate more on what you do, and less on how people perceive you.”

“And that works for you, does it?”

“I’m under no illusion as to how people see me,” Prowl says, quieter now. He looks over at the toppled stack of datapads, at the technicolour chaos of Tumbler’s desk, and he sighs.

“How do you think I see you?” Tumbler asks.

Prowl regards him carefully for a second. How does his probability calculator deal with questions like that?  _67% chance of causing offence. 43% chance of provoking a punch in the face._  He gives a small shake of the head, starts for the door. “I think you should go get those dents seen to,” he says. “I need you back here tomorrow. Paperwork doesn’t do itself, and I’m already  _very_  behind.”

“It’s good to know you care, Prowl.”

This time, the smile actually materialises – small, barely there at all, but a smile all the same, and it looks good on Prowl’s face. It looks very good. He recalls the strange, not-unpleasant sensation of Prowl’s fingers against his face, the chill of cold plating against his mouth.

“Rest up,” Prowl says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty new to Transformers as a "universe", having been introduced via the superb mediums of More Than Meets The Eye & Robots In Disguise. So I can only apologise if I've got any major details or bits of vocab wrong - I'm learning still!


End file.
